


Nightingale

by Luckie_Girl



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckie_Girl/pseuds/Luckie_Girl
Summary: AU from Canon Universe. Everyone knows the story, but what happens when some small factors change the story’s course. Erik leaves Paris after the events and works within justice to make amends for his prior actions. What happens when he sees Christine once more after the events, and not in the way he expected. How will their story continue? Follow the story to find out.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik & Nadir Khan, Raoul de Chagny & Christine Daaé
Kudos: 4





	Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fanfiction contains violence, mentions to death, grieving, depression, drinking, and will eventually explore more… sensual content.

Nightingale

No one would ever love a face like that. 

Those were the words spoken by his own mother when he was a kid. She was a beautiful woman, with a rotten heart. His father only cared for his mother and nothing else. He wasn’t extraordinarily handsome, but he was wealthy and would aid the boy's mother’s demands. A match made in heaven.

That boy is me. The devil’s child. The boy with the twisted face. The boy with a face not even a mother could love. A face nobody could love. 

.  
.  
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My childhood was anything but loving. I would be locked away inside where no one could see me with a mask on at all times. My mother would burn her cigars on me. My father would stand and watch. That was my life up to when I was the age of seven. 

One of the servants took pity on me and he would teach me the art of music and song. My love for it started from the moment I heard the first note. My favorite part of seeing him however, was that he had a pet bird that he rescued when it was recently hatched. 

This bird was beautiful in every way. Physically and musically. The little Nightingale. 

When I was 16, the servant died of sweating sickness, the only company I had left was the songbird. I would sing to it and during the night I would let it explore the world, never knowing if this time it’d leave me for good. It never did. 

The bird died a year later, it was peaceful and I cremated it and placed the aches in a small charm that I now wear around my neck. 

My parents decided that they didn’t want the burden of taking care of me when I turned 18, so they sent me off with only a mask. 

I quickly learned about human nature and how not everyone is to be trusted. I had a few small jobs in order to keep myself fed and at least have some sort of roof over my head. 

For two years that was the system. Wake up, Work, arrive home, practice music, sleep, repeat. 

It wasn’t until I met a woman, who had the inconvenience of seeing me without my mask when I was cleaning my face. She screamed and ran at first, but the next day when she returned and heard me singing she told me about the Opera House in Paris. She said that composers are paid for their work and that if I needed a place to stay there was the catacombs beneath it. 

For the next decade I lived there, sharing my music and living and breathing for the first time. I never needed anyone to socialize with. Madame Giry was all the occasional company that I needed. It was like until one day I heard a song. Soft, shy, far from good technique and tone, but I felt the soul in the voice. It spoke to me, I clutched the necklace around my neck as I desperately tried to find the source of the voice. 

A girl sitting beside a mirror, singing softly as she tidied up her room was the sight that I saw. I felt a fatherly protective feeling rush through me as I saw her. She looked to be in her teens. Perhaps 15? I watched her for a while before mustering up the courage to speak. 

“Brava. Brava. Bravisima.” I sang to her. She froze before looking about the entire room. Her gaze was unreadable and for a while she seemed deep in thought. 

“Are--” She chokes before clearing her throat. “Are you the Angel of Music?” She asked. I felt a warmth flood through me. This girl sees me as an angel-- an angel of music. I knew that lying was wrong, but the way her eyes lit up and the feeling of being called an angel fueled me to sin. 

“I am your angel of music, my child. Please sing for me, angel.” I tell her. I can see her smile and she moves to sit on the couch within the dressing room. 

“I’m not that good.” She replies nervously, twirling a beautiful curl between her fingers. 

“I’ve already heard you. Your voice speaks to the heavens, my dear. One again I ask, sing for me.” I tell her more insistently, desperate to hear her beautiful voice. This time she does not disappoint. 

She is beautiful in every way, physically and musically. Her dark springy curls, her bright eyes, beautiful face, melodious voice, and kind heart.

Anyone could love a girl like that. 

.  
.  
.

Four years later we still meet everyday in the dressing room. Most of the time we rehearse, however occasionally we do talk. She mostly talks about her father and how much she loved him. She also speaks about her devotion to me and music. I did this to ensure that she didn’t start romantic relationships. 

No one will take my child from me. But she is not a child. At the ripe young age of nineteen, I’ve seen many of the men who work at the opera house admire her. She is devoted to music however, and declines them. My angel will always return to me at the end of the day. 

She hasn’t wielded the courage to present her beautiful voice to anyone other than her best friend, Meg. I try to tell her to audition and that they’d love her, yet she lacks confidence. It’s a shame, but there’s not much that I can do about it. 

I’ve gained a persona of sorts, called the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, or simply just The Phantom. Christine remains oblivious to my ulterior persona. If there was one flaw that she has, that would be that she's very naive, however I also love that about her. My child will remain innocent of mind and body for as long as I live. 

Around this time I also looked into the mirror for the first time in awhile. My face is just as gruesome, my face is paler, my hair continues to thin, my body grows thinner, and my nose continues to be-- absent. It’s not a pretty sight, with the mask to hide my face and the cape to make my body appear fuller, I look decent. I don’t know why I even make that thought. It’s not like anyone will see me. 

.  
.  
.

One day I wake up and Christine and I speak, she tells me how much she admires me and I feel warm. It’s the typical day, however something is different when I make it home. As I stare in the mirror at myself I realize something. 

I’m in love with Christine. 

Soon after I let my fantasies unwind and buy dresses and even a wedding dress as a mere dream of her wearing it one day. She has already promised herself to me, how is this different? I spend an entire week making a doll that perfectly replicates her. 

I sleep next to it occasionally. 

.  
.  
.

The next month it’s revealed that the next big opera is to be Hannibal. Once again my effort to get Christine to audition fails and Carlotta is given the role. She has good technique and tone, however lacks soul, passion, and she is gaudy. 

Christine isn’t the best dancer, that is quite obvious. She lacks the rhythm that her best friend excels at. She gets yelled at a lot, I hate Madame Giry for those moments, it goes away by the end of the day however.

By some miracle, one of my attempts to scare Carlotta actually worked, not in the way that I thought it would, but it gave Christine an opportunity to show her talent. 

I almost yell when I hear how quiet and unsure her voice is at the start, but as she gains confidence she truly spreads her wings and she ends up impressing the managers. I shower her with compliments at the end of the day and prepare her for her upcoming performance. 

.  
.  
.

The performance goes better than expected and she sings and dances beautifully. I plan to praise her when she returns to her dressing room. She talks to Meg for a bit and by the time Meg is forced to leave, I begin to pen my mouth to speak my praise to her. A knock interrupts me and a boy walks in. 

Christine acts all too friendly with him which makes her furious beyond relief. She is supposed to be mine, so why is she letting this foppish boy so close to her?!

They talk for awhile and I’m tempted to reveal myself and murder the boy, however I refrain myself. I’ve never been crazed enough to murder, but the years of solitude have made me forget about common human behaviors. 

When he finally does leave I sing out to my Christine in anger. She apologizes in such a way that I cannot refuse. I decide that it’s time. If I am to keep her from this boy I must move first. I lure her in. 

.  
.  
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I led her into my home and upon seeing the wedding dress, she fainted. I hope that it's happiness, but I know that it was from shock. I decide to play until she reawakens. 

She woke up the next morning, but what I didn’t expect from her was that she took off my mask. I yell at her in anger that I do regret afterwards, however she did another thing that I didn’t expect. She handed me my mask back. 

Her gaze is sympathetic and I put it on, staring at her wide eyed. I feel something so strong that I’ve haven't felt this strong before. Love. I shake it off before I can let it sink in and usher her back up for her to perform. 

I try not to think too much about the love I once felt. 

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.  
.

The next night I’m breaking everything in my home. She ran away with the foppish boy after they confessed their love to each other. I never thought that she would betray me and the only thought I can think is that I will get her back. At any cost. 

I don’t pay a single thought to the innocent man I murdered today. Maybe he wasn’t so innocent, but I still did it. My mind only focuses on Christine though. 

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.

The next six months I spent meticulously planning and writing my next opera. Christine will be the star, and I will be the surprise guest. 

I also found her in the graveyard one day and I almost succeeded in having her once again, but that stupid boy was there to break her from my hypnosis. He will die for his insolence. That is after I have my Christine once more. 

Shortly after it is the day of the performance. She sings as beautifully as expected, but as I’m trying to take her with me she breaks free and lowers my hood. I sing to her the song that she sang to the boy and forced my ring on her finger. 

She unmasked me in front of the whole city. 

I take her down once more. 

When I force her into her wedding dress she argues with me every step of the way. Trying to appeal to my good side and trying to make me see the error in my ways. I make no errors. She will learn that too eventually. 

Her lover returns for her though as I expected. I wrap a noose around his neck and tell her to choose, being my wife or having her freedom, but her lover dies. 

She sings before kissing me. 

Twice. 

I was too shocked to do anything other than flail about like a loser. When we separate I look at her eyes, now sad and empty. If this is how her soul will be when she’s my wife then maybe this isn’t how things should be. 

I allow her to run off with her lover. 

She returns though and I confess my love. She returns my ring and leaves me forever. 

My music is gone forever.

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(This is where the story officially begins, I just wanted to summarize and get some context for how he felt)

I hate the main city. The loud carriages, the crowded streets. It makes it difficult. I guess I should’ve considered that before--. The memory pains me every time. Why did I let her go? Only to suffer? I feel no remorse, only anger at that foppish kid. 

I’ve been able to evade the authorities for a while and they gave up in their quest to find me, thank goodness. 

I’m currently looking through my trunk full of my belongings that I left in the catacombs. Some masks, some suits, capes, wigs, the list goes on. Everything is out and I move to close it when I see something at the bottom of the box. I grab it and pull it into sight. I freeze upon seeing it. 

The necklace containing the nightingale ashes. It’s as if all of my memories and feelings when I was a kid and young adult rush back to me. The feeling of neglect, the feeling of evil. My promise to be a good hearted man before I left. 

I broke that promise. 

As usual I’m disgusted when I look in the mirror, but this time it’s not at my physical appearance, it’s that monster that I’ve become. 

I go from a remorseless monster, to that boy once more. A 35 year old boy. 

The newspaper arrives as usual, an article catches my attention. ‘De'Changy Wedding is about to take place next month!’ I feel an emptiness inside, but I feel as if I deserve it for being such a cruel horrible person. 

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.

Two weeks pass, I continue my life as it has been. I still have a lot of money saved up, enough to get me by for a year, so I don’t fret much right now. However, if life has taught me anything, it’s that the years pass by quickly, so I’ll need a plan soon. 

I decide that the best thing for me to do is leave Paris. I need a new start, an honorable restart. One that will make up for my sins. 

Since I’ve been drained of all music, I decided to look at the newspapers for foreign affairs. I see a clipping that says that there is an organization in Italy that works for justice. I see that as my best chance at redemption. 

I’m gone within the next two days. Away from music, away from Paris, away from Christine. 

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(5 years later)

“Please, please, I will change my ways.” The weasley looking man underneath my grasps begs, in Italian. I almost laughed at that statement. 

“Yeah, like I believed you last time? I don’t give our third chances.” I tell him darkly, she struggles under my grasp. Trying with all of his might to free himself. These last few years I’ve built up a nice, muscular build that helps me with guys like these. 

“Please! I will give you anything, money, women, whatever you want!” He begs. 

“Plead for your life, bastard.” I reply, icily before throwing him to the flow. He clasps his hands together kneeling up to me. 

“Please, El Canarino Mascherato, spare me!” He begs. I smirk before taking out my knife. His screams are the only thing that fill the air as I get to work. Justice must be answered. 

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“Erik, I’ve got the next round.” The guy on the bar stool beside me says. He signals the bartender who nods and hands us our next round of drinks. 

“Oh’ c’mon. We all know how much of a lightweight you are, Daroga.” I tease, he just shakes his head before gulping down half of the glass at once. Oh boy, He’ll become an issue fairly quickly. 

As I suspected the rest of the group had to stop him from fighting everyone in the bar, and they all left early while I’m left there. I chuckle to myself over the commonality of this situation. I say for about thirty minutes longer before paying the tab and exiting the bar and into the dark streets of Rome. 

I cut through a quiet path away from a lot of crowds, because of the past that I like my alone time and I also don’t like it when people stare at my mask. My crew has gotten used to it, however pedestrians need more time. 

It’s too dark to see anything really, however I know these paths by heart as I make my way down. Suddenly, I get the feeling that I’m being watched and quicken my pace. I prepare myself for the worst however, and move my hand within my jacket and on the knife within it. 

I make it a good couple of minutes, quickly moving through the path until I feel a fast whip of air behind me and I turn abruptly. Nothing is behind me. Just then I’m knocked down, and nimble arms are choking me.

I reach to grab my knife to defend myself, but a leg stops my hand from moving. My vision spots and I'm too weak to fight back now. The person flips me over and chokes me head on. Then I hear something, something that makes me freeze upon hearing. 

“They call me, Usignolo.” The voice says and My breaths stop without even the need of being choked. 

As I lose consciousness I whisper, “Christine?” The figure freezes upon hearing my voice, but I’m still two seconds from passing out. 

“Angel?” I hear quietly as the world fades to black. 

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**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this first chapter, this is pretty much a prologue, however there is so much more of the story to learn. I can’t wait to share it with you all!


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